


By unspoken agreement

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Miscommunication, Person Thinks They Can't Say No To Sex, Unreliable Narrator, appalling self-indulgence on my part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:09:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the night of the uprising, Valjean and Javert continue their lives in Paris. But Valjean still believes that Javert considers him his prisoner. Javert just thinks they're getting closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By unspoken agreement

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the warnings in the tags. I've gone with dub-con rather than non-con, but this fic isn't happy and includes sex that Valjean thinks he's obliged to have with Javert. You probably ought to click the backbutton now if that isn't your thing.

If this is his sentence, Valjean thinks, he ought to be grateful. By all rights, he should not be free to walk the streets of Paris or spend his money or lay eyes upon his daughter. But Javert, perplexing as the man can be, has seen fit to have mercy on him. Or, at least, something like mercy.

There is no formal arrangement between them. No obligations that either could lay a hand on. If Valjean were called upon to prove Javert’s hold over him, he is not sure he could do so. There is no written agreement, just as there are no chains or keys. There is nothing but the weight of Javert’s breath on the back of his neck, and his own quiet certainty that this - this _thing_ between them is inescapable.

Javert’s lips are still clumsy at his throat. His mouth is wet and sharp and his chest presses so close against Valjean’s back that the air seems to drain from the room. _This will leave a mark_ , Valjean thinks distantly. And then he thinks, _what does it matter if he leaves a mark? There is no one left to see it._

Later, after Javert is done with him for the evening, his hand drifts to Valjean’s throat. Valjean allows his chin to be tilted.

“Forgive me,” Javert’s voice is barely audible but his eyes are fixed on Valjean’s. His mouth twists a little at the corner in something that might be conspiratorial. It is a strain not to look away. “My enthusiasm seems to have got the better of me. You must remember to wear your cravat when you visit your daughter.” 

The mention of Cosette in this of all circumstances is enough to force Valjean back a step. And before his eyes Javert becomes rigid again. “Very well,” he mutters. “As I have said: I beg your forgiveness if I have inconvenienced you, Monsieur.” And then, with a short bow, he is gone.

*

But he returns, of course. His visits have already become a regular occurrence. As far as Valjean can tell, Javert’s habits have hardly changed in the years since he served in Montreuil. And as for himself, Valjean is hardly so busy that he can turn Javert away in good conscience.

And truly, Valjean is grateful. He is grateful to remain in his garden, to be able to walk the streets and spend what time he has left upon the Earth helping those he can. He is grateful for the books that line his walls, even now that he cannot always rely on them for strength. He is grateful for the few times a week he is permitted to see Cosette. 

And yes, he will admit it to himself: when he cannot see his daughter, he is grateful for Javert’s company. Curious and fractious as it is, the man’s presence in his house is not unwelcome. On the days when Javert is troubled by the questions that seem to plague him more and more, he fills the house with his fits of passion. The man does not seem to need a sparring partner so much as an audience - perhaps an adjudicator to give fair hearing to each of the thoughts that plague him. It is not so difficult a task. It is almost heartening, to see a man go through such a transformation so late in life. He would be happy to bear witness to it, were it not for the other duties he knows Javert expects of him.

Javert slumps back in his chair, exhausted after more than an hour’s war with his own conscience, and Valjean sees - what does he see? An invitation? An expectation? Javert’s eyes are closed, his arms hanging loosely by his side. His lips are parted, and for the first time ever they seem almost soft. Valjean kneels beside him and places a light hand on his knee.

Javert’s eyes jerk open and the sound he makes is almost a groan. His knees fall apart with barely a nudge, his body more yielding than Valjean has ever known it. It is gratifying, he thinks, that Javert trusts him in this manner. His hands shake on the fastenings of Javert’s trousers. He does not think Javert would have allowed a prisoner in Toulon to perform this task, for all that they would do a better job of it. He certainly would not look the way he does if this were any other prisoner, with one hand clasped over his mouth and the other firm on the back of Valjean’s neck. That is something to take comfort in, at least.

Valjean closes his lips around Javert’s cock. A strangled half-sob echoes in the room as Javert thrusts upwards and wetness pricks the corners of Valjean’s eyes.

*

Perhaps the obligation is not to Javert, but to the Almighty. The thought is absurd - it might be enough to make him laugh if he had the strength. Instead he turns away, bows his head and offers himself to Javert’s hesitant touch. The garden’s high wall shades them from outsiders’ eyes as Javert pushes Valjean’s shirt upwards and the early autumn sunlight kisses each exposed inch of his back.

Javert is not cruel in his exploration, even after all this time. He is not gentle, it is true, but he has grown restrained with each of their encounters. As though he knows now that Valjean will not try to flee. That Valjean has proven that he can be trusted to remain, even without chains at his ankles. The rough urgency of those first few faltering attempts has drifted into something hesitant and strangely secure. As though Javert believes they have all the time in the world.

Beneath his shirt, Javert’s hands are moving over his back, fingers tracing rough lines of sensation punctuated by sudden absence of feeling when Javert touches a scar. Something flutters, achingly light, inside his chest.

If God’s eye is on him, as it surely must be, what must he seem? Is he upholding his end of their unspoken bargain in allowing Javert to take comfort in his body, or has he damned them both? 

It would be easier if Javert were more vicious. If this was nothing but pain and he had nothing to do but bow his head before authority. He would not enjoy it, but it would not be so bad as this: the tickle of Javert’s stuttered breath against his bare skin, the sound that comes from low in Javert’s throat each time he brushes up against a knot of pain that was once smooth flesh, the slow seep of what energy he has left.

Had this garden once been full of life? The wildflowers are wilting at his feet, their leaves curling in on themselves. The colour has faded from the trees. The summer is passed and Valjean shudders under Javert’s hands.

He does not believe he will last the season.

*

“You’ve lost weight.” Javert’s grip on his hips tightens. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Valjean lowers his head, pressing his face into the pillow. This is too much. It is not part of their agreement. To make himself available to Javert is one thing, but he never agreed to explain himself. He has not had to answer to any man since diving from the Orion all those years ago.

It occurs to him that he never agreed to anything, not in so many words. But surely the agreement was as clear to Javert as it was to him. Javert has, after all, followed it with his usual rigour.

A sharp jerk of Javert’s hips, hot and desperate within him. He opens his mouth against the pillow, breathes hot moist hair into the linen.

He has been obedient. He has given Javert license to pass through his home and life as he pleases, even as the few precious hours with Cosette seem to dwindle by the week. He has willingly offered his body to Javert. He has prayed with Javert. He has prayed _for_ Javert-

Javert hauls him up onto his knees, still buried within him. His teeth close painlessly around the place where Valjean’s shoulder meets his neck and Valjean gasps with a pleasure he wishes he did not feel. Javert’s arm is tight around his chest and his thrusts are agonisingly slow and Valjean wonders how long Javert will keep him on the brink this time - how long he will endure the wait, his body alive and alight and at the mercy of this most merciless of men? He makes an urgent sound.

Javert’s mouth moves from his shoulder to his neck to his ear. “Is there something you want?”

There are too many things he wants, and Javert can grant almost none of them. So he says, “your hand. Please, Javert -” and is rewarded with a brush of lips at the edge of his jaw and a warm, calloused hand around his cock. He bites down on the words of gratitude and despair that bubble up in his throat, instead thrusting upwards into Javert’s touch as Javert thrusts into him. 

He comes with a plea on his lips, but he cannot tell who - or what - he is begging for.

*

Afterwards, he lies face down on the bed while Javert runs a critical hand up his side, fingers probing at the thin stretch of damaged skin across bone. 

“You should take better care of yourself,” Javert’s voice is grave.

Valjean chokes a laugh into the pillow, almost too weary to respond at all after the force of his orgasm. But of course. Another duty. It is not enough to give himself over to Javert, he must also live out his sentence.

“I mean it.” Javert’s voice rose behind him. The palm pressed to his ribcage was trembling. “You think I never saw? You’re a fool if you imagine you could pull the wool over my eyes.” An exhale. “But no. The fault is still mine: I have held my tongue through too many meals, I see that now. Well, no more. From now on you will eat regularly and sufficiently. If you refuse to do it for yourself then do it for me. You must, Valjean.”

He should respond somehow. His shoulders are shaking and he cannot tell why. Is this laughter, the breath that skitters across his nerves? Or is it something else?

“Valjean, please.” Javert’s voice almost cracks on that last word and Valjean squeezes his eyes shut. How strange to hear Javert plead for him. “Please. I did not make it through the past three months only to watch you starve yourself to death.”

He cannot open his eyes. Speaks into the pillow. The words come too softly and with more effort than they should. 

“I have known men - first at the galleys, then later in the hospital and on the streets - men who lost arms and legs to accidents and war. More than one confided in me that though the limb was gone, they still felt-” His breath shudders through him. He keeps his face buried in the pillow and hopes Javert will be satisfied with this. “Even an arm or leg that has been removed can ache as though it were still there.”

He can feel Javert’s hands move, travelling in quick abortive gestures down his arms, palming the backs of his thighs where still, after all these years, he is so sensitive that too firm a touch can be too intense for him. But Javert is in search of answers, not pleasure. He touches Valjean’s body in the same way he paces Valjean’s parlour on his worst days. As though Valjean’s flesh is a riddle to be puzzled out.

“You make no sense,” he finally snaps. “I can feel your arms and legs - here! Here is your ankle. I can hold it between my hands. You are whole as ever.”

There is nothing to be said to that, but Javert means it kindly so Valjean is grateful. And when he feels Javert pulling him onto his side and pressing the long line of his body along his back, Valjean curls into Javert’s solid warmth, still fighting the aching loss of the best part of himself.

*

The thought returns to him when he drifts back into wakefulness, surprising him with its clarity: _Javert meant it kindly_. Javert’s arm is sprawled across his chest, his face buried against Valjean’s shoulder. His cock is soft against Valjean’s leg, demanding nothing of him but living warmth.

He folds an arm around Javert’s shoulder, feels the gentle rise and fall of even breaths, and draws a hand through Javert’s hair. Moments like this are rare - when Javert is still and silent enough that Valjean can enjoy his company and allow himself to believe that the totality of their relationship rests in this silent space. That they are not a prisoner and his jailer, not enemies bound together by circumstance and unspoken bargains. In these quiet moments, he and Javert are but two old men who have found a measure of comfort in one another.

Javert shifts under his hand, murmurs a little in his sleep. And Valjean offers up a quiet prayer. Does he wish to live? Even for Javert's sake, that seems far too much to ask. But here, surrounded by warmth and his body's dwindling ache, he allows himself to hope that he may be granted more time.


End file.
